Projector Screen

Another one-shot, a little different. I guess. Very short. Alleyways are rather dangerous places.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts. Cheers.

*

Only once did I see any of the cult-people outside of the shop.

'Leave her alone.'

The order was smooth, brooked no argument; I was terrified: I had no idea what the hell was going on now, delirious, and as Demyx took a firm—almost painful—grip on my arm and jerked me stumbling out of that Man's reach, I looked up at him. He wasn't smiling; his face was as black and determined as a winter storm. Where did he pop out of? Thin air?

I stood shaking on my legs, shirt ripped at the buttons.

'Who the hell're you,' the Man said, growling at Demyx, who was only marginally shorter—and Demyx wasn't short.

'Doesn't matter,' the musician said, calm and glassy. 'Now, leave.'

The man stepped forward, his already considerable mass appearing to enlarge and encompass the whole space of the alley entrance, near the back door of my cafe where I kept the trash bins.

Demyx was thin, he didn't stand a—

'Pardon me, but I believe you're outnumbered.' Luxord pulled his hood down as he stepped out of...nowhere, it seemed. Where did he come from? The accented syllables were warped into something altogether inhuman.

There was a solid thwock and the Man crashed to the ground with force enough that I felt the shock from four feet away. A tall, wiry man with long blond hair and a pointed jaw stood there, a heavy slat of spare crate—ones like were all over Traverse Town—in his hand. He, they all, wore the same black cloak.

'Thanks, Vexen!' Demyx said, raising one hand and waving in a friendly way that only intensified the curious dizziness in my head. Wait, he was back to "Happy" Demyx?

'You ought to be more careful,' the stringy man said, and I felt a little like a scolded child as I nodded. His voice was fairly high-pitched.

There was a sort of irritated impatience about him; I worked around people, it was my job to learn to read something. But it ghosted by, almost as if I was projecting topical colors onto a blank screen. It was bewildering, unnerving. This was a momentary glimpse behind the veil.

The tall man's eyes drifted sharply to Demyx. I got the distinct impression that he was none too pleased about this situation, and while I was not quite the subject of the dislike, I was a factor in it.

"...Are...you guys up to something?" I asked, immediately regretted my lack of tact, and with a superb poker face Luxord lied to me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Of course I didn't want a part of it, and so I let myself fall hook, line, and sinker.

They walked away, I stepped back inside the back room of the cafe, and when I turned—to look back at a whirring sound—they weren't there. I didn't feel up to investigating.

That man hadn't meant to let me see it, and if my senses hadn't been working in overdrive I wouldn't have, but when I looked closer at Xaldin, even Demyx, looked past the fluid, conventional reactions I took for granted, there was that same blank screen.

Their memories stayed with me long after I left Traverse Town and made it back home, long after my hair grayed and my eyes faded to the light. That group of people, who I did miss, even as I was grateful I had nothing to do with them. A person could still do things that they would not really be expected to.

That, of course, left me to wonder why Demyx, and Luxord, and that man, were there in that alley.

Years later, my granddaughter asked me once; Grammie, what did you do in Traverse Town?

She was a precocious kid, and I was aware most people didn't like talking about it. It was Dark Times, but for me it wasn't so much about loss, though I suffered just the same. It was a dream, a shrouded memory, linked together by the people and the places. A long absence. Once it was over, it was done.

I said: I had a cafe.

*

Haha, the last update for this was 2006, and so help me, the last time I actually updated any stories was in 2007. I take a long time. Writing is a hobby, not a job. Actually, I write more original fiction, which you can get to through the link in my profile. Vizzini, except I'm totally not Italian. Inconceivable!

Did I do an okay job of it? Please tell me. Review. It occurs to me that these two stores are perhaps against canon; the Organization shouldn't have been dying off at the same time as people lived in Traverse Town, but I like to think that the words gradually rebuilt themselves, instead of instantaneously shooting off. So, there.

As for why they'd even care to do...this...well? That's the point. Perhaps one or some of them felt an academically-driven, as opposed to emotionally-driven, urge to help? Again, much is left unsaid and open to interpretation, and I hope you can pick up that while the main character talks about herself, the questions are really supposed to be asked towards the members of Organization XIII. Thanks. If you want to tell me that Demyx is always a Pixi Stix chugging spaz, you might want to view the whole "silence, traitor" bit in Hollow Bastion.

Anyway, I had this lying around, so I decided to put it up. I WANT YOU to review. Haha. Tell me if I royally fucked up.